Waking
by Baloo
Summary: Slight AU. In a world where "Proof of Purchase" ended differently, Alec struggles to find his place and make amends.
1. Darkness

**Disclaimer:** You know the usual drill. 

**Summary:** In a world where "Proof of Purchase" had ended differently. Alec struggles to find his place and make amends. 

**A/N:** I hadn't planned to post this here originally, but then I figured there are Alec fans who aren't necessarily fans of M/A, so they probably wouldn't have had the chance to read this over at NWP. 

Many thanks to the wonderful Deb, for beta-ing. 

  
  
  


**W A K I N G**

  
  
  
_- Darkness -_

  
  
He could still see her eyes. When he closed his own, that was the image that assaulted him. Wide, brown, framed by long curling lashes… 

They'd been lovely eyes, he realized now. A detail he'd overlooked so easily in the perfection of her face when he'd had time and opportunity to admire both. And one he couldn't seem to move himself past now that it was too late. 

Passionate eyes. Alive. And burning with a fire he'd wished to warm himself by…but had been too afraid to get close enough to do so. A fire he had instead extinguished. 

  
_"Excellent work, 494"_

  
He took another gulp from the bottle in his hand, the bottle that grew lighter with each passing moment, in contrast to his body, which seemed to only get heavier, weighed down by some invisible burden. His throat stung. So did his eyes, and he wished that he could hold the acrid liquid responsible for both. 

Without purpose or destination, he staggered aimlessly through the street, the neck of the bottle grasped tightly between curled fingers like some sort of lifeline. 

  
_"I'm sorry." _

Green eyes meet brown, pleading for understanding. Pleading for forgiveness. 

A thousand emotions flitted between them in the expanse of mere seconds… 

  
The watch on his wrist read just under nine minutes. 

There was blood staining his hands. Some had even managed to make its way under his fingernails…imprinted into his very soul, he was sure, if he'd had one to begin with. And even if he'd had one, once, it would have been forfeit long ago. Maybe surgically removed during one of his trips to Psy Ops, along with the memories of the places and people all the blood had come from. 

A laugh escaped his lips, a bitter choking sound that echoed through the empty street. He stumbled toward a building and fell against the cement wall, lending it his back, the weight of his body. 

If only they'd removed his conscience as well, and the guilt…god, the guilt. 

  
_"I'm sorry. There's no other way."_

  
Eight minutes and counting. Another sip and a hand brushed across his mouth, wiping up the excess liquid that spilled. An ache welled inside his chest where he was pretty sure his heart should reside, but instead there was just this black hole that seemed to suck in anything that got too close… 

And once he'd thought nothing could be worse than Manticore - that nothing could make him worse. Apparently, there had been room for naiveté in him yet. 

  
_"Excellent work, 494." _

A hollow gaze and mechanical shift of his head. 

"Yeah, whatever." Voice empty. "Can we save the congratulations for later?" Words lacking spite. "The chip?" 

  
He felt himself slide down the length of the wall, until he was sitting, legs splayed out in front of him, loose grip on the bottle. The cement was cold and rough against his flesh where the t-shirt had bunched up on his back. 

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard as a memory pounded in his head, a relentless image haunted him. 

All he could see was her dark gaze. Her accusing stare. Her pleading expression. 

  
_"I don't want to die."_

  
His eyes popped open. Six and a half more to go. 

His breath left his mouth in rapid bursts, expelling small white clouds that hung before his face before dissipating into the air. He brought the bottle back up to his lips. 

If he could turn it off…. All he wanted was to turn off the video playing inside his head. He wanted to crawl inside his bottle, drown himself in the liquor and forget. He wanted Manticore and its scientists to come and extract the image from his brain, so he could go back to playing soldier and pretending nothing else mattered. 

  
_"What if I said I changed my mind?" A wry grin and gauging look. A test? A little torture to pass the time? "After all, you tried to shirk on your end of the deal - what if I did the same on mine?" _

He would have laughed, had the mere thought of doing so not been so painful. Instead he turns his empty gaze on him. 

"Is that what you're saying? Because let me know right now so I can be on my way." 

An unanticipated response. He'd been expecting what? Begging… pleading for his life, perhaps? No. No more of that. He's tired of groveling, of scrounging about for these little extensions… just a few more days here, a few more hours there. Prolonging the inevitable. 

"What, that's it? No fight, no nothing? After the fuss you put up last time, even turning on your own kind - you'd just crawl away to die?" 

"No, I'd walk away, go get myself a few drinks. And some time after that would come the crawling and dying part." 

A brief laugh and an incredulous look. "With… twenty-five minutes left?" 

"You'd be surprised just how much alcohol I can consume in twenty-five minutes." 

  
Make that four. Just four more. 

  
_"Alec…" _

A heavy weight in his hand as he tries not to look into the pleading eyes. 

"I don't want to die," soft voice, willing her to understand. 

The sharp glint of steel in the darkness as he raises his hand and prepares to strike. 

  
A strange noise sounded in the back of his throat, and he gasped for breath suddenly. His hand clutched tighter at the bottle, taxing the strength of the glass. 

Two minutes, forty-seven seconds. 

  
_A dark laugh, and a small box appears in his hand. A few quick punches of the buttons and, "There. Disarmed." Just like that. _

A flicker of something, finally, through green eyes. Wariness. 

"Hey, you've got the clock right there. If that thing runs out and you're still alive, you'll know I was telling the truth. If not… well, it won't be your problem any more, will it?" 

  
His hand raised the bottle to his lips weakly, but even the effort to drink was too much this time, as another barrage of images fell over him. 

  
_"I'm sorry." _

Can't she see that he doesn't want to do this? 

"There's no other way." 

That, underneath cocky exterior, underneath that carefree act, when you strip away the fancy genetics, the years of training - all he is, is an animal trying to survive. That's all he's ever asked for. Survival. 

A hard swallow, the tightening of a jaw. A soldier's mask struggles to slip back in place. 

  
One minute, five seconds. The bottle slipped from slack fingers, falling to the ground. The liquid remnants eagerly escaped their glass confines. 

  
_Her pupils dilate. A choked sound leaves her lips. _

"Alec…" 

But that isn't him any more. Maybe never to begin with. In that moment, he realizes that maybe they were right not to give him a name, just a number, a designation. Maybe he is nothing more than what they'd claimed - a tool, an instrument of death and destruction. 

  
Forty-eight. 

  
_"There's no other way." _

The knife descends. And in that moment, there is a glimmer of understanding. 

  
A throbbing had begun in the back of his head. His vision blurred. 

Twenty. 

Because, as he'd stared down into the wide, empty gaze, he'd seen… 

  
_"I'm sorry. There's no other way." _

"Alec…" 

"I don't want to die." 

  
… she hadn't wanted to die either. 

His eyes turned to the counter on his wrist. 

Three. 

"Goodbye cruel world." Somehow, the sarcastic tone he'd intended fell just short of its mark. 

Two. 

The grimace that twisted his lips might have been intended as a smirk. 

One. 

His eyelids fell shut of their own accord and he waited… 

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

No small popping noise. No brain matter spraying over the sidewalk. No cancellation of X5-494. Nothing at all, but the sound of his own harsh breathing in the empty night. 

A strangled sound fell from his lips as eyes reopened, vision too obscured by hot fluid to be of much use. 

Gasping words left his mouth, "Whaddaya know?" 

He'd kept his word after all. 

And then his head fell forward, body shaking with pent-up emotion as relief surged, mixed with bitter disappointment. 

  
_"Excellent work, 494."_

  
  
  
  
**No, that's not the end. Although, that would be interesting if it were. Hmm... But it's not. **

  



	2. Heroic Duty

Again, thank you to Deb for her beta-reading services. 

  
  
  


**W A K I N G**

  
  
  
_- Heroic Duty -_

  
  
  
  
Robert Pemberton had never wanted to be a cop. 

It was not something he'd ever aspired to, even as a child when just about every other boy in his neighborhood had passed through that phase at some point or another… somewhere along that progressive chain of fireman, astronaut, doctor… but never a cop. Not him. 

And yet, that's exactly what he'd ended up as. Officer Bobby Pemberton. A fine, upstanding member of the Seattle Police Department. 

He had never been caught accepting a bribe, or had his badge suspended for any reason whatsoever, which was more than could be said for many of his peers. He'd also never fired his gun, and the most action-filled shift he'd seen in his three years on the job was the time that burly biker had evaded his police escort on the way to the drunk tank and run a two-minute rampage right there in the middle of the station. 

No, Bobby didn't want to be a cop, but it seemed like exactly the sort of thing no one would ever have expected him to be either. Especially his older brother, Peter. 

Peter who had joined the marines at eighteen, straight out of high school. Peter, four years older than him and the pride and joy of their father, the true man's man. The kind of guy who worked hard, liked his TV and his beer when he got home, and a little blood in his steak at dinnertime. The kind of guy who wanted to see his son play football, tinker around with car engines, and get caught trying to sneak out of his girlfriend's bedroom at one in the morning. Peter, who had laughed at him and called him a pansy, and told him that if you weren't smart, you should at least be tough, Bobbo, and the fact that you can't manage either… well, that's just so fuckin' pathetic. 

And Bobby had shown him, hadn't he. Joined up at the police department, enrolled in the academy and dragged himself through the entire process, by tooth and nail. Even through the fitness tests, which had never been Bobby's strength. And when he'd graduated, and every time his father had seen him with his gun in the holster on his hip, and his uniform so clean, so sharp and so authoritative, the old man had looked kinda proud. 

But Peter, on Thanksgiving weekend that first year, when he'd gotten his six-month leave and come home for the holiday, had pulled him aside. He had laughed at him and told him he'd never make it. Not even as a beat cop, he'd never survive. One gritty situation, one time he had to draw that gun and actually pull the trigger, knowing that it was him or the other guy, and not them both, that it _couldn't_ be them both - then he'd know. He'd shit his pants and come running home so fast… tossing that badge aside and wishing that he'd just stayed at that fish packing factory where Uncle Ralph had gotten him an in, and there was no union but they gave you plenty of smoke breaks and the pay was pretty good if you could just put up with the smell the first few months before your senses dulled or desensitized, or whatever it was that made it so everything Uncle Ralph ate tasted the same to him, the only difference being the texture… 

And the thing was, there was something in Peter's eyes, when he talked about this - about the "gritty situation" and seeing blood and pulling the trigger - that made Bobby realize that his older brother knew more about the whole thing than he'd ever wish to. More than, if he was lucky, he'd ever have to. 

Yet Bobby hadn't wanted to give in, hadn't wanted to admit defeat. So he'd shown Peter, again. 

Because it had been three years and here he was, still. Three years, two months, one week and six days. And still playing cop in the mean streets of post-Pulse Seattle. 

But still only playing. 

That is, up until today. 

Today, he was going to get a chance to do more than just play. And he wished to God that he had had the foresight to choose to just stay home this morning. Called in sick and spent the day cleaning his apartment, or doing the laundry, or any one of those number of things that would earn him back his title of pansy if either his father or his brother caught him in the act. 

To his knowledge, Bobby had never seen a transgenic up close and personal. And he'd have gone to his grave a happy man had he managed to keep it that way. 

But the thing was, his partner, Dobbs, would never have turned down the opportunity to take down a real live trannie. So when the call came over the radio, a request for backup not three blocks away from where they were making their rounds, followed by the words, "In pursuit of a suspected transgenic," Dobbs got this crazy glint in his eyes. It was a glint that told Bobby not to question his partner's orders, so when the other man fingered his holster with a light, caressing touch, inclined his head and said, "Let's go," only fear of what might come from following his instructions kept him from conceding immediately. And fear of what denying his partner would entail made him give a hesitant nod when the he was pierced with a sharp look from fierce blue eyes. 

So here he was now, walking down a shadow-infested alley, five feet behind and two feet left of his partner, gun in hand, pointed straight out ahead of him. Finger loose on a trigger he'd never pulled, except at the firing range, and even then it took a conscious effort not to wince at each and every shot. 

A noise behind him had him spinning on his feet, barrel drawn out at the rat that skittered across the narrow patch of pavement between one dingy wall and the next. His pulse jackhammered in his throat as he attempted to assure his unheeding autonomic system that there was no need for alarm. 

Like hell there was no need for alarm. He was stumbling through alleyways, looking for a creature that supposedly had the speed and strength to rip out both his throat and his partner's before either even had a chance to realize what was going on. And all because Dobbs had aspirations of greatness, of having duties beyond those of a mere foot patrolman; because Dobbs was the type of guy who knew what he wanted and was prepared to use brute force to take it, if necessary. Hell, not even if it was necessary, so long as it was an option. He reminded Bobby too much of Peter. 

"Hey," the sound behind him had him whirling back in the other direction, a mirror movement of the first gesture. Only this time, the target caught in the sights of his gun was his partner's chest. 

"Fuck, Pem," the other man hissed at him, "Watch where you point that thing. You're gonna get us both killed." 

Bobby lowered his gun. 

"Dobbs… I got a bad feeling about this," he said in a soft voice, his expression pleading. "We should really wait 'til we get some backup on scene. You know we're not supposed to go in teams of smaller than four when we're tracking down trannies." 

"Jesus, Pem! We don't fucking have _time_ to wait for fucking _backup_! This thing'll be long gone by the time anyone else gets here." Still Bobby hesitated, and Dobb's gaze narrowed. "You want this creature to stay on the loose… out there - looking like us, acting like us, pretending to _be_ one of us? How're you gonna feel the next time one of these…things…kills a human, that it might've been the one that you let get away? That maybe if you'd pushed your fear outta the way and did your job, you might've saved a life?" 

Dobbs took a step toward him, lowering his voice a notch as he licked his lips almost nervously. "'Sides, Bobby, we catch this thing… how good is that gonna look for the two of us?" 

Finally he caved, letting out a small sigh. "Alright. Fine." He received a quick grin from his partner before the other man turned and continued down the alleyway with an eager strut, like a fool rushing to embrace his death. 

And Bobby Pemberton remembered that he'd never wanted to be a cop in the first place. 

  


* * *

  
He'd been running for a while now, fueled by pure adrenaline and animal instinct. But the pain had caught up to him finally, as had the blood loss, while the gunshot wound to his leg went untended. 

He had lost the four sector cops on his back a few blocks earlier, only to pick up another pair soon after. And while the numbers had decreased, these ones had the added advantage of his injury, which had not only slowed him severely, but had left him partially immobilized. Even now, he could hear their soft voices as they communicated back and forth, their ever-nearing footsteps echoing through the street. He wriggled a little further into his hiding position underneath the pile of cardboard lying next to the dumpster. 

X6-316 was tired and hungry, cold and in pain. It seemed this was always true, ever since Manticore had gone down. It seemed that all he was doing was running, even when he wasn't. 

But never, in the past few months, had there been a call as close as this. 

The pain in his leg intensified for a second, and his foot twitched involuntarily. It was the smallest of movements, but it was enough. The cardboard around him vibrated slightly with the shift, drawing the attention of his pursuers. 

"Dobbs," a voice called out softly. 

There was no audible reply, but 316 was sure it wasn't due to lack of acknowledgement. He tensed in place, readying to launch himself to his feet. Fight or flee. Or a little of both; because if he was going down, he wasn't prepared to go down alone. 

The careful shuffling of feet over pavement, and then the words, "Come out slowly with your hands in the air," were directed loudly in his direction. 

316 hesitated. He wasn't an X5; when he got up, he wouldn't be able to simply blur out of the way. In truth, he wasn't all that much faster than a normal human. 

"I said come out now, or I will fucking shoot you where you're hiding!" 

Well, if he was going to die, he was going to die like the soldier he was. Not cowering beneath a pile of rotting cardboard boxes. Not fearing some ordinary. 

Pushing his hesitation aside, he coiled the already strained muscles in his legs… 

And sprang. 

  


* * *

  
In the brief, shocking instant in which their prey leapt suddenly into sight, Bobby felt his senses kick into overdrive. And the whole world seemed to decelerate into slow motion. 

A kid, he realized. Their big bad transgenic was just a kid. 

Couldn't have been over sixteen, but there was a steely glint in his eyes that spoke of experience beyond that which a normal sixteen-year-old would have been acquainted. Definitely more than Bobby, at twenty-four, had endured. 

Blood caked the entire lower half of his left leg, and smudges of it mixed with grime on his face. Despite his aggressive response, his hands were clearly empty. He was unarmed, and displaying none of that transgenic speed that Bobby had heard about. 

At this new rate of processing, he watched almost lethargically as Dobbs' finger came down on the trigger of his gun, unable to use this advantage of his senses to provide a corresponding increase in his reaction speed. 

"Wait…" even that single word seemed to take an eternity to leave his lips. He watched the inevitable unfold with increasing horror. 

But before the discharged bullet could reach its destination, a new shadow fell - no, flew - across the alley, taking the kid down and out of the way in a full body tackle. 

"What the fuck," Dobbs muttered in awe, gun still held out straight in front of him, though his grip had loosened to the point where it looked as if it might drop from his hands at any moment. The shot had sliced harmlessly through empty air. 

The shadow rose to its feet, leaving the boy on the ground and tucked against the wall of one enclosing building. 

"What the fuck indeed." 

And here was the creature Bobby had always associated with the transgenics he'd learned of through the media and the tabloids and those eyewitnesses that came in to the station in ever-increasing numbers to report their own experiences. 

It looked human, it sounded human, but the expression on its face was anything but human. 

Just then Dobbs seemed to rediscover the presence of the firearm in his hands. With trembling fingers, he clutched at the weapon. 

"Don't move," he warned in an equally shaky voice. 

A menacing grin shadowed across the transgenic's face. "Now, you don't wanna do that." 

And that was all that either of them got in the way of warning before the man in front of them disappeared in a blur of movement. Then the gun in Dobbs' hands was flying across the alley and one swift kick took his feet out from under him. He landed with a grunt of pain while Bobby watched on dazedly. His own weapon hung loosely in his hand by the side of his body. 

While Dobbs was on the ground, the newcomer turned toward Bobby. Bobby took an unconscious step back, his eyes widening at the prospect of having the undivided attention of this transgenic. 

"Whoa," he said quietly, raising his hands in submission. "No need for that. As far as I'm concerned you're free to do as you please." 

The man's gaze narrowed, his mouth tightening in a slight frown. Bobby glanced toward the object of his attention and found that his gun was still slackly gripped in his palm. 

"Uh," he stuttered and tossed the weapon away from himself quickly. "There, right? Everything's cool." 

Something like a grin flitted briefly across the transgenic's face. Bobby took another step backward, not willing to press his luck. But his foot caught on something, causing him to stumble, and rather than falling backwards and headfirst into the wall, he took a quick step forward, lending his weight to the front of his body. 

A loud bang sounded through the air and Dobbs screamed out, "Bobby!" 

And the world exploded in a sharp stab of blinding white pain. 

His eyes widened, mirroring the expression of the man before him. For an indefinable moment, time seemed to hang suspended - then it abruptly came crashing back to normal, and all activity resumed. In another blur of motion, the transgenic left the spot in front of him, gone to disarm his partner. Bobby sank slowly to his knees. 

"Fuck," he gasped, as he slipped to the ground and rolled onto his back. 

Then the pain began to subside as a numbness set in, and his head lolled to the side. The man was standing over the prone figure of Dobbs, the weapon cradled momentarily in one hand before he pitched it far away. _His_ gun, Bobby realized with an ironic twist to his lips. Dobbs' had already been tossed out of reach earlier… the gun he'd been shot with was his own… the one he'd dropped as a gesture of amity. 

His eyelids fluttered shut for a short time until he felt a shift in the air beside him. He stared up into green eyes… human eyes. Eyes filled with regret. A hand applied pressure to the hole in his chest, but a look of understanding passed between them as both men acknowledged the truth. It was too late. 

Bobby tried to laugh, but it came out a wheezing gasp for air. 

"My fault…" he muttered, suddenly heavy lids falling shut once more. 

And this time they stayed that way. 

The last thing he heard before he succumbed to the welcoming blackness was, strangely, the sound of Peter's voice; only the tone was almost… regretful. 

"And that, Bobbo, 's why you never shoulda become a cop." 

  


* * *

  
316 raised himself slowly into a sitting position, watching warily as his savior observed a moment of silence over the dead man. 

He couldn't even begin to fathom the source of the man's obvious remorse. The cops had been looking to kill him, and had they succeeded, 316 was sure they would have spared _him_ no compassion. And he honestly couldn't say he shared in his rescuer's sorrow. 

Suddenly, the man stood, wiping a bloody hand on his knees. He turned toward the X6 with the soldier mask perfectly in place, not a hint of any emotional distress visible. Without preamble, he asked, "Can you walk?" 

316 nodded, and with the aid of the wall behind him, raised himself slowly to his feet. A surveying look confirmed that the other transgenic was mostly likely an X5. With the way he'd fought, he was definitely a combat series, and age was right for a '5. 

"This way," he was told as the other man led the way out of the alley. 

Sparing one last glance at the other cop, who appeared to have been spared and merely left unconscious, 316 followed. 

They stopped out on the street, next to a dark motorcycle. The X5 climbed on and the younger man followed suit. The ride was fast with neither of them speaking. 316 didn't question their destination, fearing the risk of provoking the elder transgenic. He may have saved his life, but there was something about him that made the X6 wary. He seemed almost… volatile. Like something was lurking just beneath the surface, biding its time, waiting to get out. 

When they came to a stop, 316 got off without prompting. The ache in his leg had grown substantially, and he was grateful that they'd finally reached their destination, whatever it was. 

The X5 spoke without looking at him. "Get to Oak Street. It's just half a block down, to your left. You should make it alright," he said, glancing at the X6's leg. "And have that taken care of right away." 

316 nodded. "Listen, tha - " 

"Just go," the other man interrupted. 

His mouth snapped shut, and after a moment's pause, he turned and began walking in the direction he had indicated. A few steps along the way, he stopped and twisted around to face his savior, willing to risk another attempt to convey his gratitude. 

But the sound of an engine gunning drowned out any words he might have offered, and soon both man and bike were down the street and out of view. 

  
  
  
  


**To be continued… **


End file.
